A Year Without Light
by thouarthot
Summary: The World's Only Consulting Detective begins to lose control of his greatest asset - his mind. How will he react to the loss, and will John be able to adapt to the role of full time caregiver?  Rated for future chapters
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own ACD's characters or the BBC's adaptation. I am not a medical professional and the only knowledge I have on this subject is through basic research and personal experience. There is no established relationship in this story. Title taken from Arcade Fire's "Une Année Sans Lumiere (A Year Without Light)."

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><p>"John, where's my phone?"<p>

That was the first time I noticed something wrong. Being so often in the company of Sherlock Holmes one tends to pick up some of his talents, and I became quite the amateur at deduction myself. "Where's my phone." Three simple words that were anything but. Had he said, "Have you seen my phone," I would have paid little attention. "Have you seen my phone" denotes a temporary misplacement, but "Where is my phone," hints that the object in question is utterly lost. The first odd thing was that Sherlock Holmes never loses anything. The second odd thing was that the phone was in my jacket pocket—the precise place he had put it a few hours earlier.

"Sherlock?" I pulled the phone out of my pocket and held it out. "You gave it to me a few hours ago, remember?" He opened his mouth, then closed it again and stared at the phone with a burning gaze.

"Yes, of course," he replied, snatching the phone from my hand. He examined and pocketed it before making a beeline for his room. Confused as to what had just happened, I ignored it at first. I wrote it off as simple carelessness. I even entertained the thought, as painful as it was to me, that it could possibly be drugs. But I pushed these thoughts away and allowed myself to ignore it for the time being.

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><p>The second incident was during a case in which a young woman named Sharon had been kidnapped and murdered. Typical case, but virtually no evidence, which was the reason we were called in. Sherlock danced around the body making silent observations as Lestrade filled me in on the technical details of the case.<p>

"So Cheryl was coming from –"

"_Sharon_," I corrected him, shooting an apologetic glance at Lestrade for Sherlock's indifference to personal niceties toward the victim.

"Right," he paused. "Sharon." He shook his head and continued deducing. At this I took note. Usually when he would disregard a victim's name he had no shame in it and continued on as if I had said nothing. This time he seemed actually put off by the fact that he had mistaken the name.

"…and even more so, to create an alibi of sorts, the killer called Cheryl's boss to –"

"Sherlock!" I pulled him out of his stream of consciousness. He blinked at me.

"What, John?" He snapped, irritated that I would dare interrupt him.

"It's Sharon, not Cheryl." I studied his reaction.

"Yes, of course!" He spit, clearly vexed. "Does it matter?" He continued the rest of the evening in a petulant state, snapping at anyone who would even breathe.

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><p>A few more similar incidents followed, all with basically the same premise. Sherlock would misplace trivial things, forget where he was or why he was at a certain place, put the kettle on and then rush back when it would start screaming, perplexed as to how it got there. Diagnoses swam through my head, but nothing was concrete. I feared the worst and decided I should talk to him about it.<p>

"Sherlock, I think we need to talk," I approached him one morning over breakfast. He looked down at me over his tea mug. "I've been noticing some strange things going on with you lately. You really haven't been your usual self. You've been sort of…slow and forgetful. Do you know what I mean?" He diverted his eyes and stared at the window.

"No," he said through tight lips, obviously disgruntled.

"No, what?" I asked. "No you don't know what I mean?"

"No," he repeated. He swiveled in his chair to look at me. His green eyes pierced my skin and I could feel ice in his voice. "No, John. No, nothing is wrong. No, I will not see a doctor. But 'no' is such a negative word, isn't it?" His tone became more cool and sarcastic. "Yes, John. Yes, I have everything under control, as always. Yes, I want you to leave me alone. Yes, I want you to stay out of my business." His words cut me, but I tried to push through even still.

"Sherlock, is it drugs? I won't be angry. I'll be disappointed as hell, sure. And of course as a medical professional I'll lecture you to death about how you're poisoning your body and most of all your mind, but I just want to know. Just tell me what's wrong."

"Of course I bloody well know!" The silverware leapt as his fist came crashing down on the table. "You think I don't see what's happening, John? You think I don't have one thousand explanations for this already? Brain tumour, schizophrenia, the list goes on! I go places and I forget why I'm there, I lose things in the most idiotic of places!" He dug his forehead into his palms and ground his teeth.

"Sherlock," I whispered, unsure of how to react to his sudden emotional outburst. His stoic visage was rarely broken, and when it was it hardly was because of anything as serious as this.

"Fix me, John," Sherlock looked suddenly at me, his eyes raw and slightly puffy. He grabbed my hand. "You're a doctor. What's wrong with me?"

"Well," I fidgeted, "have you been having headaches? Memory gaps that last several minutes, or even hours? Problems walking or balancing? Hallucinations?"

"No, none of that."

"Well Sherlock you know I can't fix you, and you'll need to see a specialist definitely, but I do have one suspicion as to what this might be." I desperately wanted not to tell him my thought. _Anything but this,_ I pleaded internally.

"Just tell me, John."

"Well since you don't have many cognitive symptoms, it seems most likely, well it doesn't seem likely at all considering your age, but cases this young aren't unheard of –"

"Early Onset Dementia," Sherlock cracked.

"Well, yes," I admitted. "That was my initial thought."

"Was?" Sherlock looked up, slightly hopeful.

"Is," I shook my head. "It _is_ my initial thought. It's the only thing that makes sense, even though it makes very little sense."

"When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he looked away.

"Woah, don't think like that," I reached out my hand to him. He pulled away slightly at first, but then slid his hand into my touch. "I don't know anything for sure. Like I said, you'll have to go see other, more specialized doctors, and dementia can only be properly diagnosed post-mortem, but we'll see what some psychological tests say. Okay?" He looked at me and he looked scared. I saw right proper fear in Sherlock Holmes' eyes, which is something I did not see often. I could tell he trusted me and I wanted nothing more than to fix whatever was wrong with him. He was an ass almost all of the time, but his mind was his greatest treasure and I could sense his trepidation at the possibility of losing it.

"Okay," he smiled, and for a moment I thought that maybe I _could_ help him through this. What did I know; I was only a silly old doctor. Maybe it was a brain tumor after all and could be easily removed by surgery. Maybe it was just stress, maybe we were overreacting. Whatever it was, I was certain I could help. I could be there for him and comfort him and be the friend he always needed.

Maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few weeks Sherlock focused all of his energy on doctor's visits and tests and observations. I set him up with the top specialists I knew, and I even accompanied him to a few appointments. The diagnosis was Early Onset Alzheimer's Disease. It was a rare occurrence in someone as young and in such good health as he, but not unheard of. I worried about how he was handling it emotionally. When he would return from his appointments I would ask how it went. "Fine," was usually his only response. He never showed any emotion about the ordeal, which I knew to be unhealthy.

"Are you going to tell Lestrade?" I asked one afternoon as we lazed around the flat, void of any work for the moment. Sherlock looked confused for a moment.

"Tell him what?" he asked.

"Sherlock!" I cried, incredulous. Could he really have forgotten? Sherlock's faced relaxed, but his mouth stayed tight.

"I know what you meant, John, but I don't see how it is any of Lestrade's business."

"I hope you don't think he doesn't know," I started. "It's pretty obvious something's wrong."

"Well if he has picked up on it then it will be the first good piece of detective work that incapable arse has done in years," Sherlock spat, folding his arms into his chest.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" He often insulted Lestrade and the rest of the police force, but his cuts never usually went this deep. He blinked before sighing.

"Sorry," he apologized halfheartedly. "I'm…irritable." I could tell it pained him greatly to admit such a human emotion. "He doesn't need to know, though. If this really begins to interfere with my work then perhaps I shall let him know. But for now, I see no reason for it."

"Sherlock, we should talk about this—about what you're going through." I extended my line and hoped he would latch on. He was silent for a long time, his thoughts almost audibly running through his head.

"Imagine the one thing in life that you love, John," he said at last. "What do you wake up for every morning? For me, it is my work. It's the only thing I'm good at, and it's the only thing I'm proud of. I found something that I could actually be proud of. Now imagine that thing you love, and imagine it being taken away from you slowly. Every day you have less and less of a grasp on it. That's how this feels." His eyes stayed glued to the floor the whole time. I knew how hard it was to admit that.

"You know, this stuff usually doesn't get too bad until a few years in," I placed my hand on his leg and he met my eyes. He furrowed his brow, not in frustration but instead in fatigue.

"I'd rather my intellect be taken from me suddenly and without warning," he said. "That way, I would barely feel it happening."

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><p>Unfortunately, sentimental moments such as that were seldom at 221B Baker Street. Most of the time Sherlock was unwilling to compromise, and took out his frustrations on me. He'd bark at me when I would remind him what he was supposed to be doing, and he would never allow me to help him search for lost things. Often times we'd have shouting matches, and sometimes he wouldn't remember them the next day. Things became difficult, and I often questioned if I would be able to handle it all. About three months after Sherlock's diagnosis, I came home to a surprise visit.<p>

"Hello, John," Mycroft Holmes sat in Sherlock's usual place on the cough, twirling his umbrella. I stopped in the doorway.

"Where's Sherlock?" I asked, the concern obvious on my voice.

"Don't worry," he smiled, "he's at Scotland Yard consulting with Lestrade. I'll see to it that he gets home safe. I just figured I'd pop in while you had some alone time to discuss some things with you." He gestured at the chair. "Please, sit."

"So what is this about?" I asked, sitting formally on the edge of my chair. Mycroft frowned slightly and leaned forward.

"You know I care about my brother," he began. "I know what he is going through right now. I am sure you are taking wonderful care of him, but, no offense meant, Dr. Watson, I would feel better if he were placed into more professional care. This would be for your sake as well as his. No matter how strong a connection you two may share, the fact remains that your relationship stops at 'close friends.' I cannot ask you to bear the burden of my brother's illness."

"Absolutely not," I crossed my arms. "He's still totally able to function on his own. He barely needs me."

"It doesn't have to be now. I just wanted to extend the idea to you, to let you know that I'll be willing to take him off your hands if it becomes too much." He narrowed his eyes and smiled slightly. "But you know, this really isn't your decision. I am giving you the opportunity to come to help for me if the situation becomes too much for you to handle, but I will remove him from this environment as soon as I believe he is too incapacitated to function safely."

"Thank you, Mycroft," I stood abruptly and walked to the door. "I think you should leave now." He smiled tightly and left. I thought for a while about what he said. At that moment I made a promise to myself never allow Mycroft to take Sherlock away from Baker Street—a promise that I knew would be difficult to keep.

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><p>Sherlock stood in the kitchen, fumbling around in the cabinets.<p>

"All right in there?" I called from the sitting room.

"Fine," he grumbled, causing a racket. I heard a few veiled swears and then silence.

"John?" he said quietly. "I've gotten the tea out from the cupboard, but…" he trailed off. I hesitated for a moment before going over to help him. Standing over his shoulder, I directed him.

"Get the kettle. No, the kettle," I watched painfully as he swept the room with his eyes. "It's on the stovetop, Sherlock. Fill it with water, then set it on the stove." He filled it from the sink, and then paused before slowly lowering it to the burner. He looked at me, knowing he had missed a step. "You have to light the stove," I whispered. He bit his lip and nodded, following my orders. When he finished this he looked up at me and I saw something I had never seen before. His eyes were brimming lightly with tears. I had seen Sherlock cry multiple times on cue to get information from suspects, but I had never seen him honestly cry with emotion.

"John," his voice cracked and I moved in to hug him. We stood there for a good few moments, hugging awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen. I felt no sobs, but I heard a few sniffles come from my companion's nose. Finally he straightened up and wiped his eyes. "Thank you," he squeezed my arm caringly. Awkwardly he lowered his arm and walked to his bedroom, disregarding the kettle he had just put on. I could tell things were getting worse for him. I suspected Lestrade knew, even though neither of us had told him. _Perhaps Mycroft got a hold of him and filled him in, _was my main thought.

Every day I watched Sherlock struggle through another case. His abilities in deduction were not severely hindered; he was merely a bit slower than usual and he sometimes required my help remembering minute details. For any other person, these changes would be acceptable. For Sherlock Holmes, however, it was crippling. All I could do was observe painfully the illness that was robbing my friend of his only joy in life. To this day, though, I am not sure what would have been worse—continuing to watch the disease slowly drain his liveliness, or the event which occurred next.

It was an ordinary day—a good day, actually. Sherlock was more alert than he had been in weeks. He finally seemed to be gaining back some control over his mind. We sat in the police station, Sherlock rambling away, while Lestrade dug through some files.

"Your killer is male, obviously, around 6 feet tall and approximately 55 years of age. His hair is dark, but graying, and his shoes are somehmm no lebada nohi—ahem," he cleared his throat, his face bright red and obviously flustered. "I hurrm dala," his expression changed instantly, his eyes filled with panic. "Jarn," he turned to me, looking for help. It was then that I realized what was happening. His face with tight due to his alarm, but his right eyebrow and the right corner of his mouth sagged downward. He took a step closer to me and stumbled.

"Sherlock, sit down, you're having a stroke," I helped him lean into a chair. I glanced over and saw Lestrade gaping at the scene in front of him. "Call an ambulance!" I shouted, shaking him from his daze. The whole debacle was over within a matter of minutes. The ambulance arrived Sherlock mimed his insistence that I accompany him. I stayed by his bedside for two days straight. I simply could not focus on any other task when I knew his health had just taken a serious dive south.

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><p><em>AN: Planning on writing only one more chapter. Sorry it took me so long to write such a short chapter. School is absolutely dominating my life._


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